


The Treasury

by BeautifulFiction



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 8,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22115596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: A collection of shorts and ficlets for The Hobbit. Predominantly Bagginshield. Everybody Lives AU. Various ratings, mostly G but rated explicit overall, just in case.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 56
Kudos: 175





	1. Baffled - For Mim

‘Where does it all go?’ Bofur asked, shaking his head in disbelief. His expression seemed stuck somewhere between pride and awe as he watched The Burglar efficiently decimate the food Beorn put in front of them.

The dwarves had long ago eaten their fill. Even Bombur, who loved his food, had admitted defeat. Only Bilbo was still going. He did not raven his meal, nor gobble it. His table manners were, as always, impeccable. Thorin had to admire him for that, at least.

‘Perhaps,’ he mused, ‘we have not been feeding him enough.’

Not that Bilbo had complained on that score. He understood that their supplies were limited. He had not whined of a growling belly or seemed noticeably tired. Yet now he devoured everything, like a bear stocking up for the long, lean winter.

Long after they had left Beorn’s comfortable home behind, Thorin found himself dwelling on the notion. It sat ill with him that one of his Company might be suffering in silence.

Perhaps that was why, from that day on, he always slid a bit of extra food from his plate to Bilbo’s. To ease his conscience. Nothing more.

Except, perhaps, to admire the way the Hobbit blushed with thanks.


	2. Touch - For Cylina

Before Bilbo, Thorin had never struggled to rise from his bed. Duty always called. Even in exile, it whispered in his ears, reminding him of all that he and his people had lost to the dragon. Now, when Erebor’s reconstruction threatened to consume every waking moment, he found himself reluctant to step into the fray.

Not, he acknowledged, that anyone could blame him. 

Bilbo lay nestled in the furs of their nest, his golden lashed fanning against his cheeks and his hair a tousled, honey cascade. The beads in his hair twinkled with every soft, sleepy breath, and the cuff at the top of one pointed ear sparkled in the rising sun. How could Thorin leave when such temptation lay at his side, begging to be touched?

Nothing in Erebor’s treasury could compare to his beloved.

His Bilbo.


	3. Drastic - For Mim

‘Damn elves!’

Bilbo winced, shooting a quick glance of apology in Tauriel’s direction. Not that she seemed offended. If anything, Thorin’s frequent curses of her race and her former liege seemed to provide her with endless entertainment.

‘I will burn that damn forest to the ground!’

‘Bit drastic, don’t you think?’ Bilbo asked, smiling as Thorin huffed like a furious bull trapped in its pen. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘Does he need to do anything?’ Thorin demanded, prowling around the council room. A single page of paper fluttered in his hand, and he glared at it as if it had done him personal injury. ‘His very existence is – is –’ He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and visibly controlling his affront. ‘ – a pain in my kakhfûn.’

Bilbo got to his feet, throwing a quick shooing motion in Balin’s direction. Within moments, the assembled advisers had departed, more amused than disgruntled. After all, they knew no one was better at dealing with Thorin’s frustration than the consort.

With an appreciative noise, Bilbo squeezed Thorin’s bum, his voice husky as he murmured, ‘It’s a very nice kakhfûn. Want me to kiss it better?’

That got Thorin’s attention, and Bilbo laughed as he found himself swept off his feet. Heat flashed through him, and he allowed the tide of love to consume him, as powerful as ever.

The business of Erebor could wait.


	4. Northerly - For Mim

Bilbo shuddered, narrowing his eyes as the wind raked across his face. Every breath hurt, and he huddled in his furs, scurrying over the battlements and almost falling through the door to the royal quarters.

Panting, he leaned back against the shut door, listening to the shriek of the gale. Thorin had warned him not to go outside: not even to rescue any of his precious plants. The dwarves called it ‘Uzgag. Roughly, it translated into “monster”, and Bilbo could see why. He had never known a wind with such teeth, nor such fury.

Staggering towards the fireplace, he reached towards the flames, half-wishing he could throw himself into the grate. The cold had burrowed into his bones. Even his blood felt like sludge in his veins. No wonder everyone else had the good sense to stay in Erebor’s sanctuary.

Something rustled, and a moment later an additional fur settled over his shoulders. Thorin’s steady hands tucked it tight under his chin, and before Bilbo could protest, he found himself settled in Thorin’s lap, engulfed by his husband’s strong arms.

‘Foolish Burglar,’ Thorin chided, but his reprimand had no teeth. Every dwarf in the mountain knew of Bilbo’s stubbornness, and none knew it better than their king. They were resigned to it, by now. ‘Are you hurt?’

Bilbo shook his head. ‘No. I wasn’t out in it long.’ He buried his hands beneath Thorin’s mantle and tunic, humming in relief as he spread his chilled fingers over hot, humid skin. ‘Where did it even come from? An hour ago, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Now…’

A gentle laugh rumbled in Thorin’s chest, and Bilbo smiled, leaning his head against his shoulder and enjoying the comfort he offered with nothing but his steadfast presence. ‘It brews in the Northern Wastes during the winter months, then unleashes its fury as the snows come to an end.’

Thorin traced a fingertip down one of Bilbo’s braids before pressing a kiss to his brow. Outside, the ‘Uzgag howled across the land, and Bilbo was more than happy to weather the storm in Thorin’s embrace.


	5. Graceful - For Mim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick little note: this possibly borders on the ridiculous, but once the idea was in my head, I could _not_ get it out =D

There was very little Thorin could find to praise about Thranduil. Though their roil of their animosity had been reduced to an almost playful simmer over the years, there was still no one else in all middle Earth who could aggravate him with such ease.

If pushed, he could concede that Thranduil was wise. To have lived so long and not learned a thing or two would be impossible. Yet the delivery of his advice always came in such arrogant tones. It raised Thorin’s hackles and fouled his mood every single time.

At least he seemed to treat others in a similar manner. Bard, currently sat to Thorin’s left at the small council table, tended to bear the elven king’s attitude with good cheer. It was like water off a duck’s back. Bilbo, who sat at Thorin’s right, could give a glare strong enough to curdle milk when he thought Thranduil was pushing things too far. It was only Thorin who seemed to suffer it so: thorns pushing beneath his skin and striking at his sensitive nerves.

Thranduil entered the room as if he owned the mountain, confident and self-assured. It was to be a small meeting: no councillors or advisors. Just the four of them speaking for their people. That at least meant Balin didn’t shoot him a dirty look when Thorin gave a quiet huff.

All elves moved with a wispy kind of grace. Thranduil was no exception. Even in armour he seemed light on his feet, dancing through the bloodshed of battle. In contrast, Thorin felt like a lump: grounded and gauche.

It happened so suddenly. One minute, Thranduil was gliding towards them, the next… he wasn’t. His foot caught the hem of his robes and that long body went down like a sack of potatoes. His crown bounced from his head, rolling away into the corner of the room where it clattered to a steady halt.

Silence.

Was he dreaming? Thorin wondered. Had he just seen Thranduil, of all people, fall flat on his face? 

Then, from the floor, Thranduil swore. One word: short, crass and utterly succinct.

The bubble of shock burst. Bard’s laughter rang out like a bell, hearty guffaws like he had never seen anything so funny in all his life. Thorin’s grin felt like it would break his face apart. A mundane day had just soared into the top three moments of his life, after marrying Bilbo and reclaiming Erebor.

So much for grace!

Bilbo was red in the face from stifling his giggles, and Thorin had to bite his tongue to stop himself from joining in. Thranduil could be unpredictable at the best of times, and he had no wish for the elf’s wounded pride to lead to a war.

Getting to his feet, Thorin strode to Thranduil’s side, holding out a hand and helping him to his feet. Bilbo retrieved the crown, his expression a mixture of amusement and sympathy as Thranduil sighed in irritation.

‘I don’t suppose you could pretend that never happened?’ He arched an eyebrow, his pale cheeks flushed despite his swiftly-recovered poise.

Thorin tilted his head as if he were considering it. There was a diplomatic answer, and then there was the truth. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘No chance,’ Bard added, his voice tight as his laughter subsided. ‘It’s good to see you make mistakes just like the rest of us.’

Thranduil looked like he had bitten something sour, but he did not protest as he took his seat, determined to continue as if nothing had happened.

For the sake of peace, as well as Thranduil’s dignity, the rest of them let it slide. Though there would be many times in future when they each chortled at the memory.

As for Thranduil, Thorin noticed that, in every visit thereafter, his robes were distinctly less flamboyant and far less likely to cause him grief.


	6. Delirium - For Star

It came on quick. Bilbo seemed fine in the afternoon, but by the evening meal he was pale and clammy, shaking in thick robes and peering at the world through bloodshot eyes. Now, as midnight neared, it only got worse.

Thorin reached for a pitcher, filling a bowl with water and picking up a clean, soft cloth. He dampened it before dabbing along Bilbo’s brow and down the column of his throat.

The skin across Bilbo’s collarbones burned to the touch, but he shivered still, his breath whispering between parched lips and his eyelids fluttering. His face pinched, but not with pain. Thorin knew fear when he saw it, and the wracked, panicked sob that hitched his beloved’s chest ripped away any doubt.

‘Thorin!’

‘I’m here, Bilbo. I’m here.’

‘No, no, no. Thorin. The eagles… Don’t go.’ Bilbo moved one hand, weak and fitful, clasping at empty air as Thorin’s heart sank to the soles of his boots. He knew where Bilbo’s fever-addled mind had taken him: back to Ravenhill’s blood-smeared peak, more than two years past.

Tears shone in the corner of Bilbo’s eyes, spiking his lashes as he thrashed, fighting to escape the clutches of Mahal-knew-what. The sight – his hobbit in such obvious distress – was more than Thorin could bear.

He threw off his robe and tunic, not even bothering to remove his boots as he slipped into the bed at Bilbo’s side, wrapping him in his arms and pressing him close to his chest. His voice lost itself in the murmuring of quiet reassurances and solemn vows as his heart beat out its worried rhythm in Bilbo’s ear.

It was a risk, offering such comfort. In this state, Bilbo was just as likely to lash out as he was to accept it. Delirium twisted the mind into cruel distortions. Yet Bilbo did not struggle against him. He clung with strong fingers, as if Thorin’s presence were the only thing anchoring him to the land of the living. His mournful brow creased in desperation, and Thorin wondered who held onto whom.

Was Bilbo trying to keep him alive up there on Ravenhill? Did he cling to Thorin’s life as it slipped away, just as he clutched at Bilbo now? His memories of that day and those that followed were blessedly veiled, but now he wondered if what he witnessed was less the madness of fever and more a memory brought back to the surface.

Brushing a kiss to Bilbo’s curls, Thorin closed his eyes. The night ahead may be long and fraught, but he would not give up his vigil. Nor would he move from this spot: not if his presence could bring Bilbo even a glimmer of comfort.

The hours passed, as was their wont, slipping away as the stars vanished into the mists of dawn’s first light. Thorin found sleep, of a sort, but it was a ghost of rest, fluttering away when Bilbo made the slightest sound.

Now, all was quiet; too quiet. 

The calm pulled Thorin from the shallows of a doze and pitching his heart into a thrashing panic. He was already propped up on one elbow and reaching for Bilbo when he realised that his fears were unfounded. Bilbo did not lie, still and silent, in death. Rather, he curled beneath their furs, his face wan but his eyes alert as he watched Thorin sleep.

A small hand rested weakly upon his shoulder, guiding him back down to the mattress as Bilbo offered a hoarse murmur of reassurance. ‘It’s okay. Thorin. I’m all right.’

Thorin trailed his fingers over Bilbo’s brow before replacing them with his lips, sensing the heat in the skin beneath. No longer did Bilbo burn with forge-fire, though a touch of fever remained. Perhaps the worst had passed, but Thorin would not take any risks. Not with the one he loved.

‘We’ll let Oin be the judge of that,’ he muttered gruffly, his fingers trailing down Bilbo cheek. ‘I thought –‘ He shook his head, unable to give his fears voice, even now. Speaking of it, of losing Bilbo, seemed too much like tempting fate. ‘I am glad you’re awake, my love.’

Bilbo’s smile, weak as it was, still seemed more precious than all the gold in Erebor’s halls. It eased Thorin’s heart and warmed his bones, reminding him anew that there were some things in this world no amount of money could buy.

In sickness and health, Bilbo was his. Thorin would never want it any other way.


	7. Well - For Mim

Thorin closed his eyes, trying to hold on to his patience. Dis meant well; she always did, even if she bothered with neither diplomacy or tact.

Oh, she was a wonderful negotiator with elves and men alike. She held the dwarven council in the palm of her hand, but when it came to kin, she spoke her mind and didn’t bother to soften the blow of her brutal truths.

‘He won’t come back.’ She raised an eyebrow, daring Thorin to argue. ‘If he returns to the Shire, that will be it. You’ll never see him again.’

‘It’s his home. It’s where he belongs.’

The noise Dis made was half-snort, half-snarl. It reminded Thorin of their mother when her temper was provoked. ‘You don’t believe that any more than I do!’ She dumped the stack of papers in her arms onto his desk, ignoring them as the pile slid and toppled, the whispering parchment accusing. ‘He belongs here. Anyone with eyes can see it. Even Bilbo himself!’

Her fingers twisted as if she were fighting the urge to throttle him, and Thorin winced as she drew herself up to her full height. With a toss of her head she threw off the veil of sibling advice and took on the guise of something far more commanding: his mother and his grandmother all in one – fierce and defiant in their affection.

‘Thorin, please. Do not let Bilbo slip through your fingers. It will be the biggest mistake you’ve ever made.’

She swept away, robbing him of any chance to reply. Not that he knew what he could say. His sister meant well. Worse, she was always right.

He should go and talk to Bilbo.


	8. Leather - For Karyl

Bilbo folded his arms, already shaking his head before Thorin could say so much as a word. ‘No. Absolutely not.’ A moue of distaste twisted his mouth, his wedding beads chiming musically among his curls. ‘I am a hobbit.’

‘A hobbit with cold toes,’ Thorin pointed out, setting the offending objects on the bed. Made of the softest leather and lined with fleece from the first shearing of Erebor’s flocks, they were not what any dwarf would call “shoes”. At best, he could concede they were perhaps some kind of slipper, but even that seemed an exaggeration.

‘Are you calling me a tenderfoot?’

Bilbo’s hazel eyes widened, emerald and amber gleaming in the first spark of his genuine anger. There was not a great deal that could rile Bilbo’s temper. Normally it took a threat to those he loved, but Thorin mentally added “tenderfoot” to the list.

‘I wouldn’t dare.’ He tilted his head, reaching out and tweaking on Bilbo’s sleeve, waiting patiently for him to unfold his arms. He entwined their fingers and leaned in to kiss his beloved’s brow. ‘I’m sure you have the stoutest soles in all the Shire. No one could doubt that.’

‘And yet you offer me those?’

Bilbo glared at the leather slippers, but Thorin thought he detected a hint of his wavering resolve. After all, Dori’s expert craftsmanship was not to be sneered at. Delicate though they were, the slippers were exquisite.

‘This is the coldest winter anyone can recall, even from before the dragon came. The forges can burn day and night, but they cannot keep the creeping chill from the stone.’ 

In truth, he had noticed how pale Bilbo’s usually weather-beaten toes had become, these past few weeks. He tended to stand on any rugs in a given chamber, if there were any to be had, and he had not missed the way he winced when he got out of bed in the morning, as if he were treading on nails.

‘I confess,’ he said at last, switching tack. Perhaps Bilbo could not let go of his pride, but for the sake of his hobbit, Thorin was not afraid to imply a weakness, ‘it is more for my benefit. It’s hard enough to sleep when burdened with the stresses of the kingdom. The chill of your feet does not help matters.’

Manipulative? Perhaps, but Thorin saw it as offering Bilbo an excuse he sorely needed. 

Immediately, all trace of disapproval fled those kindly features. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Bilbo pursed his lips, sighing in soft reproof. ‘Honestly, Thorin, if I’d known—’ 

He moved towards the bed, wrinkling his nose as he sat on the edge and wrapped the cosy hides around his feet, binding them with ease.

‘Thank you.’ Thorin smiled, choosing not to mention the small sigh of relief he had heard escape Bilbo’s lips. Nor did he say a word when, despite the soft unfurling of spring, Bilbo still chose to wear his slippers on Erebor’s cool evenings.

For Thorin’s sake, of course.


	9. Mosaic - For Mim

Erebor had many treasures. You only had to mention the Lonely Mountain and everyone thought of the great big mound of gold at its heart. They never considered the fine fabrics woven on Dwarven looms, or swords that put the Elven offerings to shame. They didn’t think of the people who made the mountain their home, and they definitely didn’t think of the halls themselves.

For Bilbo, though, the greatest marvels were in the most unexpected places: Like the bathroom.

He wriggled his toes under the water, staring down into the depths beyond them to the mosaic floor far beneath. It shone in a thousand shades of blue, catching the lamplight, as beautiful to look at as it was exquisitely made. 

No rough edges threatened to scratch him. There was no carelessness in its construction. He suspected he could look all day and not find a single flaw in its craftsmanship.

At first, he’d thought the bath ridiculous and more than a bit terrifying. Hobbits were not good swimmers, and several men could stand on one another’s shoulders and still not touch the tiles beneath. 

However, all it took was a few gentle words from Thorin, and Bilbo found his courage. 

That and, after a long day, there was nothing better than perching on the seat at its edge, hot water lapping at his chin as his eyes drifted shut.

Well, almost nothing.

Wet lips pressed over his own, and he shivered with pleasure, tasting water and soap and Thorin. His toes curled as he gave a happy hum, the sound growing deep and feral as he explored the slide of Thorin’s slick skin.

Dwarven endearments fell into his ear like pearls, perfect whispers, and he opened his eyes to admire Thorin’s wicked, sultry grin. He looked perfect, his hair a wet tangle around his shoulders and his eyes as blue as the mosaic that glimmered in the depths.

And he was all his.

Yes, Erebor had many treasures, but none were as precious to Bilbo as its king.


	10. Keening - For Mim

There were many things about Thorin that Bilbo adored, from the way he frowned when concentrating to the soft edges of his smile. However, one of the best things was the noises he made. A hum of contentment on the rare, lazy mornings they spent lounging in bed. A groan of longing when Bilbo’s kisses lingered. A contented sigh when Bilbo combed his fingers through those long, coarse strands of black and silver.

Yet this – this was the best noise Thorin made. High and tight and vulnerable: a soft, breathless keening that made Bilbo shiver in delight. It sounded obscene, as if he were on his knees, his cheeks hollowed around Thorin’s length, or deep within him, beckoning forth every last note in pleasure’s symphony.

In truth, though, nothing quite so indecent summoned those noises: at least, not by Hobbit standards. 

He stroked his fingertips over the back of Thorin’s hands, paying special attention to rough knuckles and the soft flesh nestled between each finger. He caressed the turn of Thorin’s wrists, tracing the lines of veins that lay beneath tanned skin. He dropped a chaste, gentle kiss to Thorin’s open palm, his lips curling in delight as Thorin tipped his head back and whined.

Irresistible.


	11. Joke - For TTime42

Hobbits did not start wars. It was a running joke amidst the few races that knew of them. After all, what damage could such small, stout beings, used to their comforts, inflict upon another? Spiteful gossip won no battles, and there was only so much a slingshot could do in the face of an army.

‘You will hurt yourself.’ There was no censure in Thorin’s gaze. Far from it. Neither he nor Dwalin had laughed when Bilbo asked for more training with Sting. Instead, they had shared a single, pained look, as if they had known the day would come. ‘Besides, there is no need. Our army grows in number every day. We are well-defended.’

‘Just because I agreed to stay in Erebor, that doesn’t mean I’m going to spend every waking moment under guard!’ Bilbo jammed his hands on his hips, shaking his head. ‘There will be times when soldiers can’t protect me. What’s the point of wearing a sword if I can barely wield it?’

‘It’s a warning,’ Dwalin muttered. ‘Makes people think twice.’

‘A toothless threat!’ Bilbo sighed, glaring around the practice yard for some support. Not that there was any to be found. Even Bard and Thranduil, who might have backed his cause, were attempting studious ignorance of his plight. ‘If you don’t teach me, I’ll have to learn by myself. Who knows what bad habits and awful technique I’ll come up with? It would be an embarrassment, wouldn’t it? Having a consort who can’t fight?’

‘You’re a Hobbit,’ Thorin replied, as if that explained everything. ‘People will make allowances.’

‘Hm.’ Bilbo pursed his lips. Thorin’s concern had been briefly endearing. Now it was getting on his nerves. ‘People like Orcs, or Dragons? Spiders? Last I checked they didn’t care what I was, they were still going to kill me.’

‘Look, Burglar…’

He would apologise to Dwalin later, profusely, and with gifts, but when he reached out to put a comforting hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, the Hobbit saw his chance. A shift of his weight, a twist of his body, and Dwalin was suddenly sprawled in the dirt, wheezing in surprise as Sting gleamed against his throat.

Silence rang through the practice yard, broken only by Gandalf’s rusty laugh. He puffed on his pipe, his eyes sparkling. ‘Hobbits don’t start wars,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘They finish them.’ He got to his feet, tapping Dwalin’s shoulder with the butt of his staff before pinning Thorin beneath his gaze. ‘You’d do well to remember that.’


	12. Whore - Futagogo

Being a ruler of any lands, Bilbo soon realised, mostly consisted of trying not to start a war. One wrong word, and a decades-old allegiance could blow up in your face. Most of the delegates he met understood that. They may not like the fact that Thorin had made a Hobbit his consort, but he soon earned their respect.

Some, though… Well, they seemed determined to cause trouble.

King Piln of the Red Reaches was one of them. Middle-aged and handsome, he might have been charming if he did not possess the sort of character that set Bilbo’s teeth on edge. He knew it all too well. Manipulative, two-faced and far too used to getting his own way. There were plenty of Hobbits in the Shire who shared those traits. If nothing else, it meant Bilbo was on guard from the moment Piln stepped through Erebor’s doors.

For two weeks, now, they had all endured back-handed compliments, subtle snubs and general rudeness. The Erebor dwarves grumbled among themselves, but Piln and his delegation knew better than to push the limits of hospitality too far. 

At least, until tonight. The ale had been flowing a little too freely, and the Red Reach delegation had drunk more than their fair share. Still, it was little excuse for the leer Piln sent Bilbo’s way as he passed their table on his way to Thorin’s side.

‘Well, if it isn’t Thorin’s whore. Have you come to offer your services?’

Silence washed through the dining hall, lapping out to the edges of the room. Piln’s advisers stared at their king, agog, while every Erebor dwarf, more than five hundred at the last count, reached for their axes and blades. Yet it was Thorin’s face, his tender expression twisted with cold, hard fury at Piln’s insinuation, which spurred Bilbo’s response.

‘You couldn’t afford me. Everyone knows that your halls are as hollow as your head. Rumour has it that your breeches are in a similar state: they contain nothing of note.’

Piln made a strangled noise, the best thing to have escaped his mouth since his arrival. Bilbo did not dare glance towards the head table to check Thorin’s reaction. They had worked too long and hard on rebuilding Erebor. There was no way he was going to let a war start over his honour, of all things.

‘It’s time for you to leave.’ He beckoned Dori, who shook himself free of his shock and hurried to Bilbo’s side. ‘Master Ri will help you pack. Perhaps you can find shelter for the night in Dale before you carry on your way.’

Dwalin and several of his soldiers came to a halt at Piln’s back, the clank of their armour resonant. They did not need to draw their axes; their very presence was threat enough. 

‘Commander Dwalin will see you out.’

Not a word was said in protest. Piln’s advisers looked as though they were tempted to gag him, and more than one bent so low in Bilbo’s direction that they almost fell to the floor. Silence followed them out, stony and grim. The doors banged shut in their wake.

A moment later the collected dwarves erupted into laughter. Some were loud and raucous, while others managed to contain themselves to sniggers of delight, but it was Thorin’s beaming smile as he approached and kissed Bilbo soundly that made his heart soar.

‘That,’ Thorin murmured, pressing their brows together, ‘was magnificent. I’ve never seen anyone put Piln so thoroughly in his place.’

Bilbo sighed, relieved that the dwarves had seen the funny side to his casual insults. ‘There won’t be trouble?’

‘I doubt it.’ Thorin took his hand, pressing another quick kiss to his palm as he led him back to where they both sat. ‘Piln would not dare. Not now he realised there’s more to Erebor than a big army and a heap of gold.’

‘Oh?’

Thorin smiled, his expression as fond and loving as the day they had married. ‘We also have a fierce, clever, witty Hobbit to protect us.’

Well, Bilbo couldn’t argue with that!


	13. Spooky - For Arieke

The Shire didn’t do spooky. Oh, there were frightening things: wolves and cold winters, but it was hard to find much creepy about the place. Even the forests, old and wily, harboured a grim benevolence in their bowers.

Erebor… Well, that was another story entirely.

He was not sure if it was the dark, rich as the finest silks and, in some places, more absolute than death itself. Perhaps it was the enclosed space? Walls that didn’t move but pressed in on him all the same, making him want to claw at the stone. Maybe it was the creeping, endless knowledge that, for many, many dwarves, this had been where their lives ended, brought to a halt by the dragon’s fury.

Even now, years after the quest was over and Thorin sat on the throne with Bilbo as his consort, there were still times that the blossoming kingdom reclaimed a sinister aura.

They were still opening up rooms that had not seen daylight for more than a century. Chambers like this one, abandoned but somehow still brimming with presence.

An anvil, smaller than normal, still had a hammer perched upon it. The ashes of the forge were long gone, but soot still stained its bricks. Lanterns hung from chains, strung about the low ceiling. When lit they’d illuminate every corner, but right now the only glow came from the lamp in Bilbo’s hand and those the guards outside the door carried.

There were pieces of jewellery scattered on one of the benches. Exquisite pieces, and Bilbo eased his way closer, trying to ignore the heavy, judgemental weight to the air as he admired the creations.

‘You have a good eye.’

He whirled around, letting out a huff of air as he saw the dwarven woman standing by the forge. He hadn’t heard Dis enter, but then she always was alarmingly light on her feet. She loved nothing better than making him jump out of his skin. Normally, he just gave her an irritable look, but this time she’d succeeded, and she knew it. Her lips turned up at the corner and one eyebrow quirked in amusement.

‘You did that on purpose,’ he grumbled, turning back to the jewellery with a shake of his head. ‘These are amazing. It’s a shame they were never finished.’

‘Sadly, I ran out of time.’

Bilbo almost nodded before his brain caught up with what he’d heard. Dis, for all her talents, did not make jewellery. The fine work frustrated her, and the results never lived up to her imaginings. She stuck to larger items, still intricate and beautiful, but nowhere near as delicate as these.

Slowly, he turned back, lifting the lantern higher and taking a moment to see beyond his first impressions. Now he looked closer, he could see the differences. Little things he’d missed. Laugh lines in the wrong places. A sharp nose. A subtle tilt to her eyes that Dis did not share.

‘Who –?

The stranger shifted, walking in a steady circle as she examined him with equal scrutiny. It would not have been so odd, except that she moved without a sound: no gentle footsteps or rustling clothes. Even the beads in her beard looked not-quite-right, the light shining off them strangely, as if they were far further away than they seemed.

She didn’t answer him, and Bilbo shifted his weight, half-tempted to bolt. Every instinct he had was crawling with uncertainty, torn between curiosity, disbelief and a creeping sense of possible danger. Yet something held him in place, some kind of fascination he didn’t understand.

At last, she nodded, and her distinguished features softened into a smile. ‘He chose well.’

‘What?’

‘Who are you talking to?’

Bilbo whipped towards the door, almost melting in relief when he saw Thorin leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. His tender expression softened with concern when he took in Bilbo’s alarm, and a moment later Bilbo found himself bundled up in a strong embrace. 

‘Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Bilbo huffed a shaky laugh, risking a glance back towards where the woman had been standing. As he half-expected, she was nowhere to be seen. There was nothing here but cobwebs and memories that weren’t his own.

‘I – Nothing. No-one. I think I’ve been stuck inside for too long.’ He wet his lips, forcing himself to offer a reassuring smile. It didn’t work. Thorin had sadly become an expert at seeing through his masks of politeness. 

Those blue eyes scanned the room, interrogating the shadows, and the similarities to the woman were undeniable.

‘Who – who worked here?’ Bilbo tilted his head towards the jewels. ‘Whose forge is this?’

Thorin gave him a dubious look, but his smile was back, touched with bittersweet reminiscence. ‘Frin. My grandmother. She passed long before the dragon came. She looks just like –’

‘Dis.’

Bilbo smiled, feeling some of the shaky uncertainty leave him. Hobbits did not really do ghosts or hauntings, but it was no stretch for him to believe that some of Thorin’s kin lingered in this place: recollections made real. 

She may have been strange, but she was no stranger. 

Perhaps Frin no longer stood before him, but Bilbo fancied he could feel her all the same. No longer did the room feel empty or suspicious. Instead, some soft warmth filled it, like the banked embers of a hearth, kind and welcoming.

She had come to meet him, of all people, and she approved.


	14. Dove - For Mim

Ravenhill was a messy, loud pinnacle of activity: so different from the first time Bilbo had seen it. Back then, it had been a fraught, awful place, full of death and the stench of the battlefield. Now, it smelled of paper, wax, lamp oil and ravens.

Not a bad smell, precisely, but Bilbo still wrinkled his nose and huffed a drifting feather away from his face. Around him, the ravens cackled and croaked, berating each other and generally acting like a gang of dwarves at a feast.

The thought made him smile. He had never told the others of the parallels he had drawn. Somehow, he didn’t think they would find it flattering. Still, it was true. Individually, ravens were clever and stern, sharp and quite beautiful. As a flock, they were frankly overwhelming.

Still, they had a few surprises tucked in their feathers. Generally, they didn’t appreciate the presence of any other kind of bird. Crows were chased and hawks were mobbed. They would probably take on the Manwë if they got the chance. Still, there was one who definitely didn’t fit in amidst the inky, iridescent horde.

The dove had turned up the first spring after they reclaimed Erebor. Thin and exhausted, it had been a prime target for the ravens. Yet they did not bully it away to die in the cold. Instead, they made room within their roost and harassed the Raven Masters endlessly until they fed the new arrival seeds and insects.

Now, the bird thrived. Plump and pretty, its white plumage stood out a mile amidst the much larger corvids. The dwarves coddled it as much as its adopted flock, crooning and feeding it smuggled crumbs.

Bilbo snorted, reaching out to stroke the bird’s soft breast. It cooed at him, all pleasantness. A moment later it pecked, hard, and only Bilbo’s quick reflexes saved his fingertips.

‘Bastard bird,’ he muttered, without much ire. It didn’t surprise him. Most people saw doves as something quite charming. There were plenty in the Shire, and Bilbo knew the truth of it. They bred like rabbits and were viciously territorial. They might look nice, but they had a mean-streak a mile wide and could be provoked by the simplest things.

A bit like hobbits, really.

A dove among the ravens and a hobbit among the dwarves… He had thought of the parallels more than once. Not very flattering, really. He’d rather be a raven than a dove, but it was not in his nature. No, let the dwarves have their intrigues and mystery. He’d be the bird of peace, much-loved and well-fed.

There were far worse fates.


	15. Wrinkle -For Arieke

The problem with all the finery, Bilbo mused, was that some of it creased in the slightest breeze. In Erebor, at least, the frigid winters and fresh summers meant they were wearing thick, resilient fabrics. He could fall from Erebor’s peak to its foot and still present an immaculately-dressed corpse for burial, so tough were the garments Dori spun into being.

Within the soft shelter of Mirkwood, they didn’t believe in such things. How they were not constantly darning holes from snagged britches and ripped tunics, Bilbo had no idea. Thranduil should constantly look like a piece of crumpled paper, with all his long, ridiculous robes. It was magic. It had to be. There was no other explanation.

In a fit of decent diplomacy, Bilbo had decided to wear a more Elvish style during their visit. Thorin resisted, because of course he did. The trouble was, he seemed absolutely delighted with the fact that he could rumple Bilbo so very easily. 

‘Thranduil will know,’ Bilbo managed, his voice a tight whine in his throat as Thorin’s hand stroked over him, wicked and sure. Hot lips and nipping teeth charted their adorations up the column of his throat, and his toes curled against the cool tile as he scrabbled uselessly at Thorin’s many, many layers, seeking some way to get at the flesh and finding nothing. ‘He will know and act all smug.’

‘Good,’ Thorin growled, a hint of laughter rumbling in his chest. ‘Let him. He’s the one who dressed you in this. He should accept the consequences.’ Thorin paused, and a moment later the sound of ripping cloth filled Bilbo’s ears.

‘Thorin!’ he hissed, though it came out more like a moan. ‘Those were a gift.’

Thorin kissed him, hard and long and lovely, tumbling him back into the bed, and any fragile protests Bilbo could have summoned became lost in the wicked swirl of pleasure that followed. 

They arrived at the feast mortifyingly late, with Bilbo dressed back in the familiar cloth of Erebor.

Not a wrinkle in sight.


	16. Storm - For Mim

‘Must you be so stubborn?’ Thorin clamped his jaw shut with a snap, too late. He could not call the words back, but honestly! He had thought dwarves were a challenge, but trying to get Bard and the Men of Dale to do anything they didn’t want was like trying to get the river to flow backwards.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to hold on to his temper. In the end, he could not order them to do anything, but this was for their own damn good. Oin was certain of the storm approaching. More than snow. More than ice. One where the wind itself was winter given form. Freezing rain and ice everywhere. The kind that could kill a man in an hour and a dwarf in half a day.

The elves would be fine. The trees sheltered them, and something about the lay of the land meant Erebor took the brunt of most incoming weather. The dwarves would be safe and sound within the mountain, cradled by the peak, but the Men?

Perhaps if Dale were at its best they would manage, but they were still repairing the dragon’s damage, fixing roofs and building walls. They had the Great Hall, big enough to hold them all, but its strength lay untested. It was well-built, true enough, but storms like this could bring down even the best masonry, killing all within.

And much as he hated to admit it, he had taken a liking to Bard and his people. He would hate for their already short lives to be taken too soon by a vagary of the Valar.

‘Please.’ Bilbo rested a hand on Thorin’s arm, but he was talking to Bard. ‘I know you do not want to return to Erebor less than a year after you left its halls to rebuild, but Oin doesn’t know how long the storm will last. It could be days, or it could be months. The former you could brave with ease, but the latter?’

He shrugged, leaving Bard to reach his own conclusion. He did not force or push him. Did not pick him up and carry him back to Erebor like some reprobate child (a course of action which sorely tempted Thorin) but let him make up his own mind.

Familiar emotions cast their clouds over Bard’s face. He could see it all, from the bitter pinch of injured pride to the dreading realisation of what was to come. Lake Town was no stranger to ice, but near the forest it also benefited from the land’s protection. No one had lived in Dale for centuries. It had slipped from Man’s memory just how bad it could get.

‘I can’t force them back into the mountain,’ Bard muttered at last, ‘But we will come. Hopefully, the rest will follow.’

Thorin breathed out a sigh of relief, nodding his head. ‘Thank you, my friend’

Bard looked at him, perhaps searching for any signs of deception or falsity, but he saw Thorin’s actions for what they were: true concern for the Men’s safety. They may not be his people, but the Men were still part of his kingdom, and he would not see them fall.

Not to foe, and not to twists of fate. 

Not if he could help it.


	17. Pebble - For Mim

Bilbo looked down at the riverbed and saw pebbles: rocks worn smooth by the eternal flow of water. The dwarves, it seemed, observed a whole different world. One of granite and sandstone, quartz and crystal. Even now they were paddling in the shallow channel, plucking rocks from beneath the water and holding them up for one another to admire.

For his part in it, Bilbo was sitting on a ledge that stuck out into the river, dangling his aching feet into the cool, bubbling flow and watching the occasional fish dart by.

It wasn’t that stones didn’t interest him. It was just, well, they were part of the scenery. Some were pretty and shiny (though they were all far more dull once plucked from the water’s gleam), but on the whole they were just… rocks.

Mind you, he was fairly certain dwarves saw plants in the same way. They had passed a beautiful wild rose a short way back, and all of his companions had looked at it with blank expressions, utterly unimpressed by the lush petals and verdant leaves. To them it was no more remarkable than the scrubby grass that clung to the side of the road.

With a sigh, he got to his feet, trying not to wince as they protested. He was no tenderfoot, but nor was he used to walking over such uneven ground on a daily basis. What he wouldn’t give to be back in Bag End, his feet propped up in front of a warm fire while he sipped a cup of tea. Instead, he was here, on some quest that seemed more ridiculous with every passing moment.

He went to kick at the rocks littering the shoreline – a harmless release for his childish petulance – but something made him pause. A bright, white gleam that caught the sunlight and turned it back, dazzling his eyes.

Picking it up, he pulled it free from the sandy grit at the river’s edge, turning it this way and that. Not a pebble – not at all. Unlike its stony brothers, it had not worn smooth. It remained jagged at its edges and no bigger than his thumbnail, glass like, except no glass would survive the water’s wrath.

‘What have you found?’ Thorin’s rough voice nearby made him jump. Things had been easier, since the mess with Azog and his warg – since Bilbo had proved himself not entirely useless – but Thorin had not softened by much, and he still looked at Bilbo with cool, unreadable eyes.

‘A rock.’ He shrugged, not wanting to show his ignorance any further than that. ‘I found it on the shoreline.’

Thorin looked down at his outstretched hand, choosing to slog through the shallows closer to his side rather than reach out and take it. Warm fingers encircled Bilbo’s wrist, tilting his palm for a better look, and Bilbo sucked in a breath as he tried to ignore the tingles of delight racing up his arm.

‘You found it?’ Thorin looked at him as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘This? Here?’

His questions had attracted the attention of the other dwarves, who were all craning their necks to get a better look. ‘Yes?’ He almost wanted to apologise for it, but he bit back the urge. It wasn‘t his fault he’d found the prettiest stone in the river. It wasn’t like he had even been trying! ‘Here, you have it.’

He turned his hand over, letting the stone fall into Thorin’s palm before turning away, not caring that, for once, he seemed to have stunned the dwarven king to silence. The others busied themselves with climbing out of the river, drying off their feet and donning their boots once more. They spoke to one another with the over-enthusiastic, jolly air of people trying to lighten a tense atmosphere, all the while shooting curious glances between him and Thorin.

Bilbo didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand any of it. Not dwarves, not rocks, and especially not wretched wizards who puffed on their pipe and looked very much like they were enjoying a joke at his expense.

‘What?’ he hissed, not caring if Gandalf turned him into something unnatural for such disrespect. He felt hot and prickly all over, and the ghost of Thorin’s touch still lingered around his wrist, perfectly tempting and utterly unobtainable.

Gandalf exhaled and tapped out the bowl of his pipe, taking his time as he considered his words. ‘Most people do not find diamonds in riverbeds, Bilbo Baggins,’ he explained, raising an eyebrow. ‘Gems are secrets the earth would rather keep. Some might consider your discovery a good omen.’

Bilbo snorted, knowing all too well that the wizard had only said half his piece. ‘And?’

‘And then you gave it to Thorin Oakenshield.’ Gandalf’s smile widened, and he chortled to himself in apparent delight. ‘Dwarves use stones and treasures as hobbits use flowers and food.’ He raised an eyebrow, waiting for the penny to drop.

Bilbo’s eyes widened, his face taking on embarrassment’s unforgiving heat. The tops of his ears burned, and more than anything he wished he could turn around right now and run all the way back to the Shire.

‘But that’s – that’s not what I -’

‘You gave it to Thorin Oakenshield, and he did not reject it,’ Gandalf added, his voice low so that only Bilbo could hear. ‘You may not know dwarven customs, but he most certainly does.’

He sauntered away, apparently satisfied with his meddling as he took the lead of the Company and began to usher them all onto the road once more. Only once did he glance back at Bilbo, his eyes sparkling with amusement at this – this mess.

Bilbo hefted his pack onto his shoulders, dithering where he stood and wringing his hands. He hadn’t meant anything by it, would never have given Thorin the rock if he knew, and yet – well, he couldn’t deny it had crossed his mind: a ludicrous daydream he could never quite cast aside.

Him and Thorin. Together.

Heaving a sigh, he shook his head. It didn’t mean anything – couldn’t – because Thorin would know Bilbo was unaware of their customs. Him keeping it meant no more than Bilbo giving it to him in the first place, even if, now he knew better, Bilbo could see he would have done nothing different. He would have been brave, or so he thought.

Honestly, when he had set out of his door back in the Shire, he had never realised the truth of it.

Ridding Erebor of its dragon would be the easiest part of the quest. Understanding his companions, and particularly the king they followed? 

That was by far the greatest challenge.


	18. Gift - For Karla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ushrag = Liar_

What to get the dwarf who had everything?

Bilbo scowled around their quarters, searching for inspiration. The rooms had once been stark, but the passing years and Erebor’s recovery had seen them steadily bloom into sumptuous luxury, filled with gifts from dignitaries, friends and kin alike. He and Thorin received more than their fair share, and that made this time of year particularly difficult in Bilbo’s eyes.

It was customary, in midwinter, to exchange presents of some sort. Normally, in the Shire, they feasted. Ate themselves half sick, in fact, but that’s because Hobbits had a thing for food. Dwarves were all about craft, which was all well and good, but despite his years in the mountain, Bilbo had not yet acquired their gift for making such spectacular trinkets and treasures. Nor was he likely to. Forges were intimidating and weaving made his head hurt. Leather might be beautiful, but tanning made him feel green around the gills, and weapon-smithing was utterly beyond him.

He could commission something, of course, but he had no idea what. In truth, Thorin had everything he could possibly want, and anything Bilbo could offer would just be another object to clutter up their space.

‘That’s a fierce scowl.’ Thorin smiled, raising his eyebrows as he approached. Bilbo folded his arms and tried not to huff, not that it did much good. He shouldn’t resent Thorin for being a king and having literally everything, but did he have to make his life so difficult? ‘Did something happen?’

‘No.’ Bilbo wrinkled his nose and shook his head, quick to put Thorin’s mind at rest. They had been ruling side-by-side for almost ten years now, and they did not bother to shield one another from Erebor’s troubles. It would only make matters worse for them both. ‘No, everything’s fine.’

‘ _Ushrag_.’ Thorin shifted closer, his blue eyes fond as he wrapped his arms around Bilbo’s waist and pressed a kiss to his brow. ‘You look ready to go to war.’

‘Only because you have everything.’ It sounded grumpier than he’d intended. More accusatory than he meant, but Thorin knew him well enough by now, and it rolled from his shoulders like water off a duck’s back. Besides, this wasn’t a new problem. Bilbo struggled every year and made no secret of it. Only this year, he had finally run out of last, desperate ideas. ‘Difficult dwarf!’

‘Bilbo.’ Thorin sighed, reaching up a hand to cup Bilbo’s jaw. ‘You have already given me everything I could possibly want. My kingdom. My throne. My life, and the lives of my sister-sons…’ He scowled as Bilbo stammered his usual excuses and shook his head. ‘Deny it all you like, but without you, I would have none of this.’

He smiled, pressing his brow to Bilbo’s, gazing into his eyes in that way that took Bilbo’s breath away every time. ‘Then, in addition to all of this, you gave me your love. What more in life could I ever ask for?’

Bilbo wrinkled his nose, a grudging smile spreading across his lips as his cheeks flushed warm. That was one thing about dwarves, they were not ashamed to put their feelings into words. What might seem sappy and false from a hobbit sounded only like the simplest of truths from Thorin.

‘I’m a gift, am I?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow as Thorin nodded. ‘Then I don’t suppose I can tempt you to unwrap me?’

Now it was Thorin’s turn to grin, wicked and wild, and Bilbo laughed as the bed welcomed them both.


End file.
